


Ned

by Jadesfire



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aqaba, 1917.  <i>This wasn't part of the assignment.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ned

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://apiphile.livejournal.com/profile)[**apiphile**](http://apiphile.livejournal.com/) who demanded Jack/T.E. Lawrence. This is the Gen edition, more or less.
> 
> With huge thanks to [](http://miss-zedem.livejournal.com/profile)[**miss_zedem**](http://miss-zedem.livejournal.com/) and [](http://crystalshard.livejournal.com/profile)[**crystalshard**](http://crystalshard.livejournal.com/) who save me from myself.

_All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible._  
T. E. Lawrence, _The Seven Pillars of Wisdom_

  


There were times Jack just couldn't help himself. He should probably try harder, of course, but if he had to live like this, live the slow path, the waiting path, the uncertain path, he could at least enjoy himself along the way. So when Torchwood had given in to his frequent requests to get off the Western Front, he hadn't even bothered to stop in England first, just grabbed the first berth he could on a ship headed towards Arabia.

This wasn't part of the assignment. At all. But there was no way he was missing this chance. Living legends were hard to track down, and Jack had a list. It was always possible, if unlikely, that one of them would be hanging onto a dangerous alien artefact, and it was as good an excuse as any. He'd managed to meet some of them already – including a memorable encounter with Oscar Wilde and an unrepeatable one with Harry Houdini – but there were always more. People whose books he'd read or stories he knew. The people who'd changed history, made a difference, not skulked through the twentieth century, trying not to attract too much attention.

It had been hard, timing his visit so it coincided with his quarry's, but now here he was, sitting in sand-covered quarters in Aqaba, pretending that this was where he was meant to be. Alice would kill him if she knew, and probably take far too much pleasure from it.

He was smiling to himself, just a little, when the door opened and a man in long, flowing robes came in, unwinding his head scarf as he shoved the door closed. Hidden in the shadow by the window, Jack watched as the man leaned against the wall, head bowed and shoulders heaving. After a moment, he straightened, visibly pulling himself back together, but still moving with a weariness that made his shoulders slump and eyes half-close. Jack stayed silent for now, letting him have the space to put himself together again. It was a need he understood, and he was loathe to break into the moment, but he was going to be spotted soon. And he hadn't come all this way to leave without even exchanging greetings.

Jack had left his gun on the table, and the man's eyes fell on it before seeking him out, his face more guarded and wary than surprised.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Jack said, keeping his voice low and gentle. It wasn't one of his best opening lines, and the man's mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"So you say. I trust you will not take it amiss if I reserve judgement on that point for the moment. And it may be terribly bad mannered, but may I have your name, sir? I make a point of knowing the names of all my guests. " The voice was clear and precise, still holding most of its Oxford vowels, but with just a hint of something else, the accent of someone who didn't speak English most of the time anymore.

"Captain John Ross. Jack to my friends. At your service, sir." Jack stood slowly, keeping his body language as non-threatening as he could. Of course, he'd tracked the man here, broken into his quarters and waited for him the dark, so any chance of allaying suspicion was probably gone. He also realised as he stood that he made a more imposing figure than he had done, looming over the shorter man by least six inches. It wasn't a great start.

"Captain T E Lawrence. Although I suppose you already knew that." Lawrence finished pulling off his outer robe, throwing it over the table, and probably not incidentally over Jack's gun. He seemed to relax a little once the weapon was out of sight, perhaps since he was still wearing his own. "Do you mind telling me what you're doing here?"

"Just an admirer," Jack said, unable to keep himself from grinning. "I've followed your career with interest. Couldn't pass up the chance to meet you in person."

Stepping back a little, Lawrence looked up at him with eyes that shone in the evening sun. "I'm not sure whether or not to be flattered."

Even with the space between them, Jack still felt as though he was towering over the smaller man, so he moved backwards himself, trying for his best 'trust me' smile. "Definitely flattered. I thought you should have a drink to celebrate your glorious victory."

The greatcoat had been too hot for the days out here, but he'd been grateful for it at night. And he was grateful for it and its deep pockets now as he pulled the bottle of whisky from a coat pocket, setting it on the table, next to Lawrence's robe.

Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "The desert isn't as dry as one might think." Nevertheless, he picked up the bottle and read the label carefully. "This is pretty good stuff."

It had been, once, although how it would have fared in the heat remained to be seen. Jack shrugged. "Shame to waste it, wouldn't you say?"

"Almost certainly." Casually, Lawrence checked then broke the seal, unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips. Jack watched, half-surprised, half-amused as the other man took a few long gulps. To put himself in that position with a complete stranger, his head thrown back, throat exposed and eyes closed, Lawrence was either too trusting or too confident, or maybe he simply didn't care. That was something Jack could understand, although at least he had actual immortality to rely on. It seemed that Lawrence's reputation for near-suicidal recklessness was well-earned. Jack liked that.

Lawrence put the bottle on the table rather than passing it back. "That's very good stuff," he said, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. "I don't think I can rustle up any glasses at this short notice. We've been a little busy, you see."

"I suppose we can manage this once." Still grinning, Jack picked up the bottle and took a swig himself. It was strong and burning and rich, the fumes filling his head and making him almost dizzy. When he lowered his head, looking at Lawrence again, he saw an answering smile there, and had the feeling he'd passed some kind of test.

"Shall we sit?"

Apart from a low bed in the corner and a sort of chest by the door, the table and chairs were the only furniture in the room. They sat by the window, passing the bottle back and forth, while Lawrence talked. As he spoke and they drank, Jack could almost feel the wind of the desert, the sharp, stinging sand that overwhelmed all other sensations. He heard the cries of the Arab forces as they charged on Aqaba, felt the admiration for their bravery and the fierce, passionate loyalty that Lawrence held for these men. He was caught up in a world of chivalry, nobility, princes and chieftains, the world that Lawrence lived for, real and unreal all at once. It was like being there, seeing events as he saw them. It was like standing on the edge of history.

It was more than Jack had hoped for. He'd got his hands on Lawrence's book at a time when he'd still believed in heroes and battles and daring deeds, and the impression had stuck. To be sitting here, listening to the man himself, was almost surreal. This might be the slow path, but at least Jack had time for sightseeing.

Lawrence talked until the sun had sunk below the horizon and they had to light a lamp to see each other, his voice growing hoarser and lower as time went on, as he spoke of the friends he'd lost, the men he'd known and left behind. They'd drunk nearly half the bottle now, and Jack was starting to feel the effects, a gentle mellowness that settled around him, warm and comfortable like the sun on his back. He realised after a moment that Lawrence had fallen silent, and, when he looked across, Jack saw that the other man was gazing out of the window, into the dark city.

"It'll all be for nothing, of course," he said, his speech a little slurred. "They'll come in here, the British and the French, and divide everything between themselves as they always do. We'll fight them, fight them every step of the way, but still, in the end, they'll win." He sighed deeply, reaching out and pulling his robe towards him, then stopping.

Jack had almost forgotten about his gun, and he watched as Lawrence picked it up, turning it in the dim light of the lamp. The weapon was Jack's one indulgence, his single connection to who he used to be. The gun he wanted, the one that would connect him to his past and his future, wouldn't be made for another twenty years, but this one was a promise to himself, a reminder of where he was going and where he had been.

They'd made him leave his wrist comp at Torchwood in Britain, arguing that someone could take it off him while he was dead and cause who knew what damage to the timeline. He'd fought them on principle, even though he'd known they were right, and had handed it over in the end. But this gun, the Webley Mark IV, was his secret, a reminder that meant nothing to anyone except him.

"This yours?" Lawrence asked, and Jack understood what he meant, that he wasn't really asking about ownership of the weapon.

"The army issues them too, but yes, I chose that one."

"I chose mine." Reaching down to his belt, Lawrence pulled out the long barrelled revolver, laying both guns on the table. "It saved my life."

Jack knew the story, but he let Lawrence tell it anyway, how the man who'd crept into his tent to kill him had been unable to work out how to fire the gun, and so had left without harming him. How Lawrence had refused to change weapons since, deeming this one to be lucky for him. He could see in the man's eyes how much it meant to him. It felt a little odd, that echo of his own attachment to a fire-arm. For men who travelled lightly, he supposed they both had reason to trust in the guns they carried. The only really precious thing either of them had was their life, even if Jack couldn't be rid of his if he tried.

"It's been a pleasure," he said at last, when Lawrence lapsed into silence again, this one deeper than the last. "But I should return to my own quarters, let you sleep."

In the lamplight, Lawrence's face was half-hidden in shadow, brooding and dark, but his eyes glowed as they met Jack's. It would be too easy for Jack to lose himself in them, consumed by a soul that seemed as vast and as old as the desert itself. He wondered what Lawrence saw as he stared back.

After a moment, Lawrence turned away, looking back out of the window and nodding a fraction in acknowledgement as Jack got to his feet, pulled on his coat and put the Webley in its holster. "Goodnight, Captain Lawrence. And thank you. So much."

He was all the way to the door, had half-opened it when he heard the words, so soft that he nearly missed them.

"Wait. Jack."

Jack turned back, seeing Lawrence still shrouded in shadows, his face still unreadable, but his words all too clear. But Jack wanted to be sure, so he just said, "Yes, Captain?"

Lawrence's voice was soft, and his tone was unmistakeable. He didn't turn towards Jack, stayed just as he was, his hands pressed together under his chin and his posture tight and tired.

"My friends call me Ned."

Jack closed the door.


End file.
